


Magic, Madness, Heaven, Sin

by stained_glass_angel



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 21:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16941231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stained_glass_angel/pseuds/stained_glass_angel
Summary: This has nothing to do with Taylor Swift, it was just the first title that came to me.Dwight is a sweet and innocent youth pastor who lives in the quiet, sleepy town of Bergundale and falls for the cocky, deaf bartender at the town's local pub, Randy. These are their stories and one shots written about them. We love our boys.





	1. Randall Eddison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello this is my precious devil baby Randy's character sketch. Written by my best boy Cassy/Milo/BigGay.

All humidity in the room seemed to be condensed around the round lip of the mug. The steam rising from the fragrant coffee was clearly visible in the chilly air, swaying lazily upward. The billowing white was suddenly cut from it’s course as a sharp stream of breath sliced it in two, and a pair of thin, pinkish lips closed over the rim of the mug. Randy drank deeply, despite his blowing doing little to ease the heat of his drink, not minding the bite of the temperature on his tongue.

The Cracked Colonel was empty tonight; closing time had been nearly fifteen minutes ago. At this hour, even the town drunk had cleared out, to Randy’s immediate relief. His slim caramel eyes surveyed the molding walls of the pub, eyelids heavy with boredom and face slack, devoid of emotion. Randy sighed deeply within his caved chest, raking long, callused fingers through his combed-back hair.The ends tickled the back of his neck; he would need a trim soon. It seemed rather inconvenient in his opinion, but a necessity to look like the only polished thing in this damned booze-bucket.

Randy took another draught of coffee; luckily caffeine had no effect on his sleeping habits, for, he had no sleeping habits. His eyes fell shut, the sickly purple-ish hue on his upper and lower lids attesting to his exhaustion. During his shift it was rather easy to grin and put up a friendly front, serving each customer and kicking out those who came to make trouble. Or those who’d be happy to add more stains-of various kinds-to the booths in back. Alone, he was often bored. Boredom, although it bordered on excruciating, was far more satisfying than smiling empathetically when yet another skimpily clad woman threw up on your lapel. 

The air was only growing colder, and another sigh escaped Randy’s parted lips as he rubbed at his nose, scraping the pale mole that rested on his cupid’s bow. He had a few of those; women seemed to love the ones above his sparse brow. He stood, his legs and spine stiff with cold and ache. With a gentle stretch, he donned his jacket, downed the rest of his coffee, and trudged to the door, each step creaking on the old, damp floorboards. Tomorrow, after an hour or two of sleep, he’d be back for his happy hour shift, smiling at brazen men as he mixed their drinks and politely ignoring the flirtatious ladies until the latter men dragged them to the booths, toppling over each other.


	2. Dwight Jackson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello this is my other precious son Dwight's character sketch. Written by me.

The walls of the church were covered with photos in various states of exhaustion, ranging from glossy brand-newness to moldering yellow, dating back years and years until practically Bergundale’s founding. Youth pastor Dwight Jackson had made a routine of showing up early every morning so he could browse the halls and watch the passage of time immortalized in perfect, fussy chronological order.

Dwight’s gangly, mop-headed frame was a constant presence on the right side of of the past six years’ worth of youth group photos, but one picture from about four years prior elicited the biggest smile on his face, likely because standing just to his left was a lovely, frowning memory by the name of Wesley Olsen.

A bitter young fellow, Wesley had come to stay in Bergundale as part of Bosmeer Prep School’s exchange program, and for the year that he was there, he was dragged to the youth congregation with his sisters every single Sunday. It was clear how he felt about being there, from his loud gum-smacking during the prayers to his refusal to shake Dwight’s hand after the ceremony, but Dwight remembered him with great fondness.

He remembered spotting Wesley one night behind the church with a bottle of red spray paint, spraying swirls of inappropriate language on the walls. But rather than confronting him and giving him a tongue-lashing the way one of his superiors would have, Dwight came to stand beside Wesley and complimented him on his excellent syntax. Wesley was so startled that he could hardly respond other than to stand there gaping — but when Dwight went on to ask what he was writing, Wesley seemed to come to his senses and ran off into the night, leaving nothing behind but the echoes of his footfalls.

Only for a moment did Dwight stay behind, to read the words “FUCK THE HOSPITAL” and gaze at the painting of Wesley’s youngest sister, sweet and peaceful and holding a single daisy. And only the next day did he understand what it meant, when he was requested to preside over her funeral service.

Dwight had never touched a can of spray paint before. He had never driven out of town. But the following night, he did both, and then parked his car behind the church, opened his fresh box of paints and brought little Annabelle Olsen’s face alive with colors.

Everyone assumed Wesley had done it. But as Dwight let his fingers trace the frame of the old photo, his thumb touching the sky-blue stain on the corner, a little bit of it came off onto his skin, and he remembered Wesley’s face when he found the mural and remembered why he made it his business to hate no one.


	3. Blinding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello precious babies (who probably aren't reading this lol). This is a poem written by our beloved Cassy/Milo/BigGay about my son Dwight. Enjoy.

Death often hides in a smile.

Tiny, crystalline glints of death,

Perhaps a parent’s loss.

Perhaps the torment from the schoolchildren

In the eighth grade.

Perhaps a hidden secret.

Death is dark, and life is bright.

But when you paint over black with white,

A little grey always, always bleeds through.

 

Pain is universal.

Pains of all kinds,

Of the mind, of the body, of the soul.

Or the soulless.

Even the people who shone like stars,

Those who warmed the skin of those in the vicinity:

Had a strained core, shivering with effort,

Always on the tipping point of implosion.

 

And yet, Dwight Jackson shone.

He shone, blinding, aggravatingly so

Any quiver of his core either masked or nonexistent,

An impossibility come to fruition.

Less a star and more the tail end of a black hole,

Expelling all the light it had ever swallowed up in its life

Lighting the world ablaze with dazzling rays.

No black, oozing from a porous facade. 

Only piercing white.

 

The query remained nonetheless.

When would his soul run grey,

Having upheaved it’s cheerful shine?

Would it implode and then extend its wrath outward,

Like a dying star?

Or would it simply shrivel and curl,

Cooling ever so slowly as it fought,

In its last moments, to conceal its hurting heart.

Would he smile as he succumbed to the ache inside,

And did he ache now?

 

Pain is universal, and to some eyes, stark against the skin,

And yet how could a smile, a gesture oh so telling,

Always hiding a bruise, a gash, a gaping puncture;

How could his smile reveal nothing of black death,

Nothing but pure joyous life?

 

Either he is a perfect being,

Radiant as his laughter clears the air of hanging filth,

Or his insides are splashed so black and woeful

That he must outshine them all to hide it.

 

For the sake of the beauty all eyes surely behold in him,

Hope it is not the latter.


	4. A Heart of Stained-Glass-Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, gays. This is a poem with a special cameo from a sweet little friend of mine named Ella who did me the kindness of writing a poem about baby Dwight :))))

Small town/news travels fast.

Sets of eyes/young and old/watching whispering pointing fingers

Through shiny windows/of dusted darkness/of blue-brown eyes

Of stained-glass

He watches through a film of sympathy/empathy/no apathy

Melancholy thoughts grazing pictures of people

They watch him/he sees them

In their eyes/in his heart, he is still just the boy

Walking, wandering alone

Down by the water

Throwing stolen packs of cigarettes taken from sorry sinners

As if he could drown them

Years passed/he is still the town’s “good boy”/the boy man

Who tries to help people

Who reads lips/eyes/expressions as well as he reads the Bible

Who sees you

Who keeps secrets of all kinds in his/golden heart/with spiderweb cracks

“Like a guardian angel”/no; like a shooting star

Crashed to the Earth/a little broken

No one sees past his light/his halo

Of messy brown hair

And soft smiles

Because kind people don’t hurt, right?

 

He harbors secrets

In his cracked heart of gold

Hidden behind/stained glass windows

And blue-brown eyes

They are his own/they are not his

They are not his to share

He will never tell/of the girl on the lake

Whose soul still floats there

Long after she’s left

He will never tell/of the seventh grader

With buttery fingers

And stones that weigh down more than just his pockets

He will never tell/of the secret dancer

Who wears fake glasses

And waterproof mascara

He will tell God/no one else

 

Sore kneecaps/hard marble

Messy brown halo/hangs from his bowed head

No one watches

Through those stained-glass windows

As he prays for everyone

But never himself


	5. Tweetheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably gonna be my favorite chapter in this whole book. I love it so much. My boy BigGay is actually so talented and aaaaaaaa.
> 
> This is the story about how Dwight and Randy first interact. Randy is a twitter addict late at night, Dwight doesn't know how to use social media and loves sharing stories from youth group, and...the rest is history :)

Keys clacked mutedly under fingertips. Tired, baggy eyes were washed in light from the bright screen before them, as their owner absentmindedly scrolled, teeth habitually worrying at his thin bottom lip. Boredom was infuriating. Taxing. Excruciating. He belatedly wished he had the motivation to take up a hobby; maybe watercolors, or flimsily-constructed card tricks that the common eye could easily see through. Yet here he was, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling.

Randy often found himself turning his weary eyes to Twitter on his down time. It was better than a soap opera or reality television; it was practically both. The citizens of Bergundale led such dull little lives, that every slight occurrence was an opportunity to overshare, with melodramatic vigor. It was a perfect platform with which the bartender could amuse himself for hours, working his already exhausted, drooping fingers until they ached as he subtweeted to his heart’s content.

It was during one of his late-night scrolling escapades that Randy paused on a photo that caught his eye, reeled it in, and held it’s attention with an almost aggressive appeal. An absolute smattering of freckles, joy crinkling in the corners of bright, open eyes. A mop of dark hair, flopping and wisping as if it had been slept on, styled to perfection, and then slept on again. Lips stretched in an attractive grin, the flash of teeth just enough to evoke how his joyous laugh must ring pleasantly to the ears. Randy scrolled up slightly to read the handle: Dwight Jackson.

_Huh. Not bad._

Surrounding this picturesque man were the beaming faces of adolescents. Never had Randy seen an adult so capable of keeping the attention of a mob of fourteen-year-olds. They all seemed to be laughing with him, his glee like an infectious disease. The man made of sunshine seemed blissfully content to let one rowdy tween viciously poke the delicate sunspots on his cheek. Randy was forced to pinch himself, bringing himself out of a trance-like stupor, to read the caption below the bewitching image:

_I happened to find some old photos from our summer retreat that I never posted! I can’t believe I missed sharing some of these wonderful memories. All the kids were great, and I can’t wait to see who shows up next summer. Hopefully some beautiful new faces as well as familiar friends._

Ah, the church’s youth summer retreat. So he must be a pastor of some sort. _How have I never noticed him? He’s prime trolling material._ A flat grin tugged at Randy’s lips, just barely lifting the apples of his cheeks. He double, triple-checked that this photo was Dwight’s most recent tweet, then began his reply.

_Ah, yes. A gaggle of teenagers, spending several weeks out in the woods, with no phones or internet access, singing around a campfire about Christ the Lord. They must have had an absolute blast._

Fluency in sarcasm was one thing he could pride himself on.

It didn’t take long for him to finally turn in, dark eyelids heavy and brain buzzing from the screen staring back at him. The floorboards protested as he stood, padding across his flat to the bathroom as if they’d rather have him wasting away his sleep at the computer than trampling them with his flat, cold feet. Now that he was away from the computer, it was a matter of going through the motions. His stubble scraped at his palms as he splashed cold water over his face, his features seeming to sharpen even further as he tied his hair back. He was in the middle of rinsing his mouth, the mint of his toothpaste searing his inner cheeks as he breathed, that his screen lit up with a notification in his peripheral.

_I’m so glad you noticed Randy! I thought so too. I was impressed that none of the older kids tried to smuggle their phones along. Maybe you should join us as a volunteer next summer. We’d love to have you!_

….was this guy for real? Randy gawked at his screen, panting softly. Luckily, he lived alone, and no one would be able to tell the tale of how he’d made a frantic beeline for his computer as soon as the notification had gone off. However, his neighbors may wonder at the loud “Fuck!” they’d doubtlessly heard; he’d stubbed his toe rather violently on the doorframe.

It may be time to admit that he had a slight Twitter addiction. Maybe.

His damp fingers flew across the keys, hardly thinking about what he wrote. This was a new occurrence; his trolling responses were often ignored, playfully returned, or ferociously attacked, which was in itself hilarious. But someone blatantly misunderstanding? This was indeed a first that he intended to take advantage of.

_I’m going to have to decline that offer. I’m not much of a nature person, despite my resemblance to Bigfoot. Although, that’s not the worst thing in the world. You know what they say about big feet._

It was posted before he realized what he’d done.

Oh lovely, now he was inadvertently flirting with the admittedly attractive ‘Good Christian Boy’ of Bergundale. His eyes were wider than that time he’d had five cups of coffee as his bloodshot gaze bored into the words, dissecting every syllable he couldn’t take back. He knew he wouldn’t delete it. He didn’t care that deeply. But it was a tad traumatizing in the moment.

He was yawning, actually yawning by the time he received a response. He startled as the notif appeared, rather suddenly, enraptured as he was in a staring contest with the clock in the corner of his toolbar.

He found himself gazing at a mirror into the past; specifically about 9 months ago. He looked worn and tired, but the amber lights of The Cracked Colonel cut attractive lines into his features, causing his tired eyes to look deep and mysterious, accentuating his cheekbones and turning his jawline into a well-whetted weapon. It was a somewhat embarrassing photo, as he never took selfies, and he clearly had no clue in hell what he was doing. But as Randy emerged from the initial shock of seeing himself from so long ago, his eyes skimmed down to the caption.

_Bigfoot where? I found this photo on your account; you’re a good looking tapster! Why don’t you stop by the church after my sermon, I can tell you more about volunteering. It’s really up to you, but I think we’d make a great team!_

Randy felt his ears grow warm against his will, and he buried his head in his arms for a long, silent moment, before sighing. A grin once again tugged at his lips, and he lifted his fingers to the keyboard.

This was going to be a longer night than most.


	6. The Girl on the Train Tracks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello sons and daughters and non-binary thotters. This is a little piece of Dwight's life outside him and Randy, where he interacts with a girl named Winter and describes a bit of his relationship with God as a youth pastor.

Her eyes were two different colors. One of them held the soul of a forest, gleaming green and full of vibrance and vitality and complex thought; but the other was stained a deep brown, as if someone had poured pain-laced swamp muck over what was once sunshine and beauty. The sight sent a pang of hurt through Dwight as he watched her absently pick at the strings of her guitar.

Though he’d been hesitant to approach the mysterious youngster at first, sure that she was simply out for some fresh early-morning air, something in her posture made Dwight wonder. He’d seen her out on the tracks once or twice, tossing stones or singing, but today she sat perfectly still; and a moment after he made the decision to speak to her, he froze in his tracks as he saw the clouds forming at her lips.

Though it could have been mist for a distance, now Dwight saw clearly that it was a different kind of smoke pouring in dusky curls from the girl’s lips. The cigarette gleamed a garish orange in her hand before falling from her grasp as she let out a loud, hacking cough. The mist seemed to shy away from its darker, uglier counterpart as it flew off the girl’s tongue into the sky, and Dwight felt a shiver of relief go through his body as he saw the cigarette’s glow fade in the dewy grass. Poor girl didn’t need any more of that in her lungs.

But then a moment later, after letting out a string of curses that made Dwight wince, she pulled out a lighter. Another cigarette, a flame that came into being with a click that sounded like a gunshot — and then more smoke.

As Dwight came closer, the girl’s burgundy-dyed hair and angular face came into focus like a photograph, and her name came to his lips in an instant, tasting like a faded old memory from the first and only youth group meeting she’d ever attended.

“Winter!”

She froze.

“Pastor Jackson?” she said quietly.

“Winter, don’t smoke that.” Dwight answered, voice wavering.

“I’ll do what I want,” she hissed, tucking her knees to her chest and taking another long drag.

“You’ll kill yourself, Winter,” Dwight pleaded. “God gives to all people life and breath – don’t fill it up with smoke.”

“I don’t need you reciting your Bible verses at me,” Winter snapped. “What are you even doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in town baptizing a baby or something?”

“I’m walking,” Dwight responded. “It clears my head.”

“What do you need your head to be cleared from?” Winter asked scornfully. “There isn’t anything in there but fluffy clouds and crosses.”

The words hit Dwight like a bullet to the gut. For a moment Winter’s face was replaced by the pasty visage of Dwight Jackson Sr., and his gruff voice echoed hers — poisonous words crawling off his tongue with incisors ready to sink their teeth into Dwight, while they scuttled across the table to fondly caress his sister’s face. And Dwight locked eyes with his sister and saw the tears welling up to spill over onto her cheeks, and her broken-glass gaze mirrored his own.

And then the vision faded, and he realized that he wasn’t looking into his sister’s eyes at all; but Winter wore the very same expression. Dwight looked into those eyes — those lovely confusing two-colored eyes which held so much beauty and hurt in equal measure — and clarity finally struck him.

“You know, Winter, my family never believed in me either,” Dwight said softly.

Winter paused, cigarette halfway to her mouth. “What?”

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he went on. “And that’s why you’re smoking cigarettes, because it hurts and someone told you this would numb the pain.”

Winter was quiet.

“You know something I learned over the years as I grew up, Winter?” Dwight said, hugging his knees and gazing at the morning sky. “What your family says to you — about being worthless, not as good as a sibling, never able to make it or do anything right — it doesn’t mean all that you think it means.”

Winter rolled her eyes. “Sure. It’s not like they’re the people who supposedly know me the best, who raised me and who live with me. And yet even though they see all of that, they still think I’m not good enough. How the hell does that not mean anything?”

“Words have power only if you give it to them, Winter,” Dwight said. “And remember — they can think what they like, but only you can define what good enough means. Loving yourself is the first step toward letting others love you — and you don’t ever have to prove anything to anyone but yourself. Understand?”

He reached over to tap the pack of cigarettes in Winter’s pocket. “But if you smoke more of these, you’ll never have a chance to prove anything to anyone — because your lungs will shrivel up. Death isn’t an escape, and temporarily numbing your pain isn’t worth sacrificing everything you can achieve.”

Rolling the cigarette between her fingers, Winter took a deep breath. “That’s actually not bad advice. Did God teach you that?”

Dwight smiled. “No. I came up with it myself, actually. Although if you were hoping for another Bible verse, I have plenty.”

Winter cringed. “No, thank you-”

“Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flows the springs of life. Proverbs 4:23,” Dwight said proudly, smirking at Winter as she groaned aloud.

After a moment, they settled into a comfortable silence, and then when Dwight reached his hand out to Winter, she haltingly gave him the cigarette and watched as he put it out on the wet grass.

Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other.

“Thanks, Pastor Jackson,” she said.

“Call me Dwight,” Dwight answered. “Will I see you at youth group?”

Winter snorted and picked up her guitar. “Don’t push it.”

And a moment later she skipped away into the mist, dissolving as quickly as she’d appeared but leaving the world around her a little bit brighter.


	7. Of Pizza and Pot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies. Here is a cameo from my dear creative writing friend Alex who created a character named Reese (lonely seventh grader who is SUFFERING.jpeg) who she wanted to have interact with Dwight. We love some boys!

There are certain types of sadness that squeeze your heart in a way you can’t quite figure out. It’s the kind of melancholy pain you get from seeing someone all dressed up with nowhere to go. It’s the same far-away twinge of emotion Ms. Madison got when, after she cheerfully announced the next activity could be done with a partner, she saw a pale scrap of a hand slowly rise above its grey-hoodied owner to quietly check if the activity could be done alone instead.

“Of course, Reese, but are you sure you wouldn’t want to work with someone else. I’m sure I could find a partner for y—”

“I’ll work with Reese!”

The boisterous slobber of TJ Timmons brought her words to a premature close. Ms. Madison stared in unconcealed shock as TJ lumbered across the room and plopped his meaty frame next to willowy Reese. Reese, too, looked on in silent surprise at the mammoth boy now seated next to him, but his face quickly flipped to poorly suppressed glee at finally having someone to work with.

“Well,” Ms. Madison quickly stammered. “That just works out perfectly, doesn’t it?”

Reese’s heart nearly bounded out of his ribs as the teacher turned away to scold another pair for sticking gum to the bottom of the desks. For the first time in years, he was normal, just pair of boys doing the same activity as everyone else. The sheer ordinariness of it all was intoxicating.

His euphoria lasted beyond the final bell when TJ grunted that Reese should join him and the other lacrosse guys for lunch.

“I’ll see you in the pizza line.” Not a question, but an order that Reese was thrilled to oblige.

Stuffing his sack lunch in the already teeming garbage can—why have a sweaty bologna sandwich alone when you can have Little Caesars with the biggest guys in class?—he tried to refrain from skipping to meet his new friends in the pizza line. Slowly shuffling through the line with them, however, his excitement wilted like soggy cafeteria fries.

“So, you think you can steal some of your Dad’s pot or what?”

Of course. He was an idiot. Such a freaking idiot. Why would the lacrosse team ever want to hang out with him, the kid who couldn’t run a lap around the track without wheezing? Even Ms. Madison was shocked TJ worked with him and she’s the teacher. Stupid, stupid idiot.

Time slowing down to a sludge around him, Reese mumbled some excuse about having to go to the nurse and slipped under the vinyl line barrier, barely looking back when TJ encouraged him to think about his offer.

Walking quickly, tears forming dark splotches on his cotton jacket, he made it out the front door of the middle school, blending in with a group of sixth graders shuffling outside for a field trip.

Stupid idiot. He walked faster, trying to outrun the humiliation and the nauseating image of pizza sludge trapped in TJ’s braces when he guffawed down at Reese. He felt like that sludge, all chewed up and spineless, hopelessly trapped in the horrors of TJ Timmons’ slobber and demands.

He couldn’t refuse. They weren’t friends, and this made it clear they never would be, but there was no way around it. People like Reese didn’t tell people like TJ no. At least, not without taking a set of hairy knuckles to the jaw. But could that possibly be worse than being the local drug dealer?

The crunch of gravel under his feet abruptly told him he had reached the bottom of his driveway. He picked his head up for the first time all afternoon, noticing the violently overgrown blackberry bushes stretching through the chain link fence and the curls of white paint peeling off the side of the house. Dragging his toes through the rock path to the shed out back, anger tightened and bounced like a rubber band ball in his stomach. Anger at being taken advantage of again. Anger at being forced to the outside of every group. Anger at always, always being the poor kid.

Suppressed rage fueled the tempo of his feet, faster and faster again until he stood panting in the doorway of his dad’s growing shed. The fury that powered him drained through his legs as he took in the tools and tanks and heat lamps, all quietly humming around green behemoths of plants. Surrounded by a complex ecosystem he couldn’t begin to comprehend, Reese suddenly realized that deciding to steal the pot was no longer the problem: he had no idea what he was looking for.

The crunch of a squirrel on a nearby pile of leaves shocked him back to where he was. Panic taking control of his hands, he plunged his hand into the first container he saw—a large black trash bag full of some kind of green—and crammed a fistful into a nearby Ziploc bag. Stuffing the bag into his pocket as the door slammed behind him, Reese ran away from the sin he had just committed, though no matter how fast he moved, the shame only got tighter around his throat.

Consumed with his own self-disgust, he hardly noticed when he made it back into town, hardly noticed when a car slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting him, hardly noticed when he bumped smack into the local pastor, sending them both reeling for something to grab onto.

After steadying himself on a nearby lamp post, Reese tried to push on and away, anything to keep moving, but a warm hand on his shoulder made that impossible.

“Hey, where you going there, bud? Something on your mind?”

Something about Dwight’s gently confused smile was enough to crack the bubble of anger and shame clamped around Reese’s mind. Trying to avoid overt public humiliation by crying, Reese dug his nails into his palms as the words and emotions quickly tumbled out: how he was so excited to work with a partner, how he was finally making friends, how he was going to buy lunch to fit in but didn’t even get to eat, and most of all, how the small bag in his pocket felt heavier than Sisyphus’s boulder.

About halfway through, Dwight pulled Reese to sit on a park bench, and when the story was over, simply pulled the small boy to him and let his tears soak into his faded sweater. By the time the waterworks had ended, rush hour had begun, and the pair simply watched the cars and people go by in silence.

Eventually, Dwight asked to see the pot. With trembling fingers, Reese handed the wrinkled bag to the pastor, who held it up to the fading sun.

“Have you considered giving them oregano?”

Reese’s head reeled. He was expecting some kind of moral lecture to raise his spirits and strengthen his anti-drug resolve, but Dwight wanted to talk about spices?

“Honestly. They probably don’t know what marijuana looks like. So why not give them some oregano and go on your merry way? It gets them off your back without making you a criminal. What do you say?”

Dumbfounded, Reese nodded mutely and began to turn the idea over in his mind. It wasn’t a bad one. TJ would never know.

“Now you head home and get some oregano. I’ll get rid of this so it’s not on your hands.” Dwight reached out a freckled hand and ruffled Reese’s tangled hair. “Keep your head up, alright, son?”

Slightly rosy-faced from crying and the cold, Reese’s eyes nonetheless crinkled at the corners as he grinned at Dwight and began the trek home. For once, his feet bounced on the pavement to the rhythm of hope.

Dwight, in response, relaxed against the back of the bench and chuckled to himself. The oregano would work out fine. If seventh graders thought lawn clippings were pot, herbs were no big stretch.


	8. Thanksgiving Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello children. Time for some angsty Jackson family backstory.

_The dinner table was silent, punctuated only by the occasional soft tap of a tear falling onto the wood._

_Of course it was Amelia who spoke first. She’d always been the braver sibling, and it never failed to amaze Dwight that she could keep her voice steady at times like this._

_“This…this isn’t what I wanted.”_

_“You think I give a damn about what you want?” James snarled, pulling the cigarette from his mouth with indignation. “I’m your father and I know what’s best for you–”_

_“And you think ‘what’s best for me’ is sending me away.”_

_“I think ‘what’s best for you’ is making use of all the smarts you’ve got in that head of yours, which unfortunately didn’t transfer to your brother,” hissed James._

_“Don’t talk about Dwight like–”_

_“I’m giving you one of the best opportunities you’ll ever have, and this is how you’re thanking me?”_

_“I don’t want to go,” Amelia insisted._

_“This ain’t about what you want, how many times have I got to tell you that?”_

_Amelia pressed her lips tight together, fists trembling. Dwight reached across the table to take his younger sister’s hands in his, but she pulled her arms back and wrapped them around herself._

_“A medical degree will be good for you,” James went on proudly. “College will be good for you. You’ll be the most educated person in the house, Amy! You’ll be able to get a job and be rich, and…”_

_Sadness clouded his eyes. “You’ll be able to have the life I could never give you.”_

_For a moment, when Amelia’s eyes met James’s, the anger and hurt in her gaze seemed to soften._   _But then she glanced at her brother and she stiffened again. “And what about Dwight?”_

_“I don’t see him complaining,” James said coolly._

_“What you don’t see is that this ‘life you could never give me’ could be given to him too,” Amelia spat. “You think you’re doing me such a huge favor by shipping me off to New York while Dwight has to stay in this hellhole with you–”_

_“‘Melia, don’t,” Dwight mumbled, head still bowed._

_Amelia turned to him. “You’d just let him treat you like this?”_

_“No. No, I just–”_

_“You’re just gonna let him walk all over you, the way everyone’s always done?”_

_The words hit him like a knife to the gut._

_“Do you…do you not even want me to stay?”_

_Dwight’s head snapped up. “How can you say that? How can you ever think that I wouldn’t want you here? I just — he’s right — I can’t–”_

_James snorted. “See? Can’t even make a proper sentence. College wouldn’t even make a dent in that skull of his.”_

_Dwight gritted his teeth, willing the tears to stay lodged in his throat. He couldn’t cry — not in front of James, and especially not in front of his sister._

_“Always running around trying to prove to the whole damn town how nice he is, stealing my cigarettes like he thinks he’ll single-handedly find a cure for lung cancer — Amy, honey, how do you not see that you’re the one who really deserves this?”_

_Amelia’s eyes were still fixed on Dwight._

_“Come on. Say something,” she urged._

_“He’s right,” Dwight blurted._

_Amelia’s expectant expression crumpled._

_“You deserve this, ‘Melia. You deserve to go to college and get a degree and find a new life. You’ve always wanted to get out of this town, get a degree–”_

_“What about you? What about studying philosophy and changing more people’s lives?”_

_“Your life is the one that deserves changing the most of all. I know you always wanted to be free–”_

_“And you haven’t wanted that too?” she said shrilly._

_“Doesn’t matter what I want,” he muttered, ducking his head again as disappointment flooded her face._

_“Exactly,” James chimed in. “First damn smart thing he’s said.”_

_Amelia wiped away the fresh tears on her cheeks, faced James, and said evenly, “Sometimes I wonder why our mother ever married someone like you.”_

_Before Dwight even had time to process her words, James was out of his seat and there was a crack like a gunshot — and then Amelia was on her knees, clutching a bloody lip, James looming over her with fire in his eyes._

_After a moment, his expression relaxed into a Cheshire cat grin as he took a drag from his cigarette and blew smoke at his daughter._

_“Your bags are upstairs.”_

_She got up and ran to fetch them._

“Mr. Dwight?”

Dwight blinked.

“Mr. Dwight, are you okay?”

He looked up, shifting back to reality in a painful instant. To his side was Ricky, a bright seven-year-old from youth group.

“Yeah!” Dwight said immediately. “Yeah, of course. Why do you ask, Ricky?”

“We miss you inside,” Ricky pouted. “Everybody says youth group’s Thanksgibbing dinner isn’t the same without Mr. Dwight.”

“It’s pronounced Thanksgiving, Ricky,” Dwight said with a small smile. “And tell them all I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Okay!” Ricky answered brightly, skipping back into the church.

Dwight watched him go, smile fading as he leaned back against the brick and glanced at Annabelle’s colorful mural. The dim, chipped words “FUCK THE HOSPITAL” still shone crimson in the moonlight, and Dwight shook his head at the irony of it all.

_“Don’t worry, Amy. If you aren’t grateful for this now, God knows you’ll be licking my boots by the time you’re home from medical school. Ain’t this just the perfect holiday gift?” James said with a yellowed smile. When Amelia didn’t respond, he clapped her good-naturedly on the back and said, “C’mon, I’ll drive you to the airport.”_

_She threw one last glance back over her shoulder at Dwight, her expression a heartbreaking mix of sadness and resignation._

_“Bye, ‘Melia,” he said._

_She didn’t smile. “Happy Thanksgiving, Dwight.”_


	9. Happy Accident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi kids! Dwight and Randy's first in-person meeting is very sweet and fluffy and wholesome heehee

Randall Eddison was thinking about Dwight Jackson again.

However, on this occasion, he was doing so while staring blankly at rows of celery lined up with meticulous perfection in the produce section.

Reaching out to examine a stalk, he was instantaneously aware of sudden pressure on his shoulder—a hand. He startled, pitching forward slightly, and he would have landed face-first in a basket of zucchini if not for the hand’s twin taking hold of him, pulling him to safety.

Randy snapped his head around, irked enough to give the perpetrator a decent earful. However, his vision was thoroughly assaulted by the  _last_  thing he’d expected to see: a smattering of sunspot-freckles, dazzling eyes, and a mop of hair that put the ‘mess’ in mesmerizing; to hell with proper spelling.

“Easy there, tapster! I’m not that scary, am I?”  _Oh no_. That sunshine smile made his knees far weaker than he’d anticipated.

“Hey, did I get you that bad? You look a bit—”

Randy swallowed down something that felt suspiciously like butterflies in his stomach.

“It was just a little fright, no harm done.”

“Sorry. I saw you while I was over by the bananas, so I came to say hello. I called your name a few times, but you didn’t answer, so I assumed you had earbuds in,” Dwight said. “But hey! Hello! It’s nice to finally meet you, even if it was a happy accident.”

Dwight offered his hand, his smile as wide as ever. Randy’s lips betrayed him with a gentle tug at the corners as he gripped the other man’s hand.

“You’d think in such a tiny town, we’d have run into one another much sooner,” he quipped.

“True,” Dwight said. “I  _have_ been pretty busy. The kids are wonderful though, I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

“Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”

Dwight chuckled softly, his hair finding a new way to look artfully dreadful as he shook his head.

“Definitely not.  I learn more from the kids than they could learn from me in a lifetime.  They keep me humble, you know?”

“ _You_  need help being kept humble?” Randy raised a disbelieving brow.

“Of course! Doesn’t everyone?”

Randy could have sighed at the innocent display. There was no way in hell it was entirely authentic, but that was what made Dwight so fascinating. His genuineness wasn’t a mask as it was for many others in this quagmire town, but Randy had a penchant for worming his way into the depths of people. And he wanted to know what else there was to the lovely Dwight Jackson.  

He would also love to know how the man made his chest feel so weightless and tight all at once with just one smile, dammit.

“Dwight, I—”

“You know ASL?”

“Pardon?” Randy said, taken by surprise. Dwight was looking fixedly at his hands, mid-gesture. Randy was aware that he was an animated speaker; had he been flailing?

“ASL. You’re signing while you talk,” Dwight observed, squinting up at the taller man’s face. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you deaf, Randy?”

“I am,” Randy said, still a bit behind. “I had to learn to speak aloud for my profession, but I suppose I tend to sign out of habit. I wasn’t aware you were familiar.”

“I’m not completely fluent, but a few kids find it easier to communicate that way,” Dwight said. He lifted his hands, signing his words, a smile returning to pacified lips.

_“ **Would it be easier for you if I sign?** “_

_“ **No need, I can read lips decently.**  _But that’s very kind of you, Dwight.”

“Got it,” Dwight said, raking a hand through his tussle of curls. “Man, you just get more interesting every time I talk to you. I’m glad I finally got to meet you in person.”

Randy was both bemused and befuddled—Dwight’s smile had taken on a new tenderness, his speckled cheeks slack and rosy. Randy watched for what felt like hours as his eyes flicked back and forth, only meeting Randy’s own for a few seconds at a time before darting toward the floor.  

“Dwight?”

Dwight locked their gazes with an almost forced consistency.

“Yes, sorry, what were you saying?”

“How would you feel about coffee? Maybe after your sermon, just you and I?”

The expression he got in response was radiant enough to damn near blind him, but he found he didn’t mind so much, watching Dwight’s curls bob weightlessly on his head as he nodded.

This moron was going to be the death of him.


End file.
